


he's made of outer space

by heavensfallingaroundus



Series: AM [1]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019), Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Boyfriends, Dirty Talk, Fluff, M/M, Naughtiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 22:04:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19876801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus
Summary: Richard and Taron go on a luxurious romantic getaway to Sardinia.





	he's made of outer space

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LissaCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LissaCat/gifts).



> I wish I knew how to quit thinking about these two for five bloody minutes, especially since I'm supposed to be on holiday, but I just can't help myself.  
> This is the first of many snippets inspired by the masterpiece that is Arctic Monkeys' AM album, and it's completely dedicated to my wifey, Allyssa, my number one enabler. She's not even properly in this fandom and puts up with my shit daily—she deserves some recognition. 
> 
> P.S.: how funny is it that Arabella is also Elton's girlfriend in the movie. Fuckin' hilarious.
> 
> Please, have this thingy I wrote entirely on my phone and struggled to edit on said mobile device for what felt like fucking forever. I hope you enjoy it.

_It's much less picturesque without him catching the light_   
_The horizon tries but it's just not as kind on the eyes_

The ten days in Sardinia Richard booked six months ago were something they'd both been massively looking forward to. There had been a time, around mid-March, when Taron literally would not shut up about it. He kept buying guide books, every single one he could find and in every bloody language he could more or less understand—to Richard's surprise, he'd even found one in bloody _Welsh_ , for Christ's sake—and made a point of showing Richard pictures of all the beaches and suggestive little port towns they were going to visit, and this happened systematically, every single bleeding day that God sent on this green Earth.

Visiting Sardinia has been a dream of Taron's since he was a little boy, which would explain the fact that, months later, he still doesn't seem to have gotten over the fact that his Valentine's Day card had come alongside a second envelope, containing a printout of their reservation for the Cala di Volpe Hotel, plus a private jet ride to Olbia. That was supposed to be a side surprise to getting fucking _engaged_ , by the way, which had happened on the same day. A swift kind of affair, because Richard really couldn't wait any longer to pop the question, but dang romantic nonetheless—blue box, three red roses, a giant Prosecco bottle (Taron preferred it to champagne), the balcony of their London penthouse overlooking Canary Wharf making not too shabby of a backdrop for it.

Some days Richard comes home and looks at Taron, all the colourful guide books and his glistening eyes, like a child's at Christmas, and wonders whether it's the ring now on his finger or the prospect of this trip that makes him happier. He systematically settles on _probably both_ and goes on with his day, loving his fiancé a wee bit more every time he hears him squeal with excitement after buying new sunnies and swimming trunks online.

Now that they've finally arrived, Richard understands completely. Settling in their ridiculously luxurious detached suite—the bleeding thing has a concierge service and priority access to a humongous fucking _golf court_ , for fuck's sake—feels like such a dream, Richard is suddenly very glad he has spared no expense, because Taron really doesn't deserve anything less. Heck, neither does Richard, actually. A proper celebration is in order right now, since the wedding is not likely to be happening any time soon—schedules are so full these days, they can barely keep up.

It's early July, and the weather is absolutely amazing. Richard makes a mental note to send Elton and David flowers to thank them for recommending a time and a place for their engagement getaway, and being absolutely fucking bang on. Enablers in chief, they are, indeed. Richard and Taron's number one biggest groupies, ex aequo.

Richard smiles to himself while he picks his suitcase up off the floor and opens it up. He just needs trunks and a quick dip in the turquoise sea of Romazzino beach for now—unpacking surely can wait a few hours. Plus, his suits and shirts have travelled safely in multiple fancy garment bags—which Roberta Armani has graciously sent over after their last get-together in Milan—and he really does not give a shit about anything else in his luggage. He can bet his and Taron's cat's life the stupid hotel has a dry cleaning service, anyways.

While he's fishing a pair of burgundy red Sundek trunks out of his suitcase, Richard sees Taron move in the corner of his eye, and turns to face him just as he's coming out of the bathroom. One second, Richard is blissfully oblivious to what he's about to see. The next, his heart skips a beat at the sight before his eyes.

Taron has apparently deemed it fitting to wear swimming trunks so bloody tight that, well, _everything_ seems like it's being kept together by the mercy of very strong seams—and a little magic, too.

Oh, and they're short. Like _proper_ short. Like, _showing off the whole of his thick, muscular thighs_ short.

Richard finds himself gulping down on some saliva while he is inevitably reminded of that _Rocketman_ outfit that broke the internet a while back, although these are not quite hot pants. More like very short and very revealing boxer briefs.

Except that the colour is possibly even more striking than the level of tightness. They're not nearly in the vicinity of any shade of black or white or grey, like most underwear Taron owns. They're fecking _sparkly silver_. Like, Jane-Fonda-in-Barbarella-level sparkly.

For probably the first time in his life, Richard finds himself unable to formulate a snappy remark. And Taron looks very, very proud of himself.

"Cute, aren't they?"

"Uh-huh...", manages Richard, undecided on whether Taron looks more ridiculous or fuckable. He settles on something in the proximity of _absolutely bloody ravishing_ , and starts unconsciously biting his lower lip, all the while letting a bright smile shine throughout his face and reach his eyes.

Taron beams at him and turns sideways, mockingly reaching for the doorframe, jutting his arse outward and arching his back. Striking a fucking Instagram-fitness-model pose.

That _dang_ booty.

Richard briefly wonders how Taron still hasn't gotten the call from Gymshark promising a lifetime of free obscenely tight-fitting workout gear, and then he erupts in a fit of laughter, because his fiancé is absolutely bloody ludicrous.

"You're _out of this_ _world_ , baby", Richard chuckles, taking a few steps towards him and possessively grabbing a hold of his left arsecheek. "Perfect."

Taron raises his eyebrows at Richard, hands simultaneously coming onto the Scot’s chest and mindlessly tracing circular patterns on his half-open navy blue shirt, boyish smile turning imperceptibly wicked.

"Thought you wanted to hit the beach, honey?"

"Oh, we will, T. Soon as I've hit _this_."

A loud spank lands on Taron's arse, at which he positively jumps into Richard's arms and lets himself be carried towards the bed. Taron already smells like sun cream, and this somehow takes Richard's breath away.

—

Taron has, of course, actually gone out of the room and into the world in the bloody trunks. Richard has thought it a waste of time to even try to argue, since Taron admittedly does look absolutely fucking _stunning_ in them, plus Richard knows Taron pretty damn well by now, and he's aware that the chances of him succeeding in changing the beautiful Welshman's mind when it's settled on something are always impossibly slim.

What he does stop to wonder as soon as they get on the beach, though, is how long they will be allowed on the premises before the heavily made-up, fake-boobed, platinum blonde mother of three in the gazebo next to theirs will go complain about Taron's mildly obscene beach attire to a member of staff.

Two piña coladas down, Richard is in _bring it on_ mode. He's decided that he doesn't actually care that much, because the outline of Taron's dick flashing him from beneath the silver trunks is truly a thing of beauty, and he finds himself appreciating his fiancé having the nerve to wear that thing in public much more than he would like to admit.

—

There's just something about the way in which Taron is sipping on his Coke that has Richard positively squirming in his seat.

He tries (and fails) not to think about Taron's pretty lips wrapped around something other than the thin, long glass bottle he's currently clutching in his hand. Richard writhes again, and has to fan himself to keep his composure, simultaneously thanking every relevant Olympian deity for letting him pick a not-too-revealing beach outfit for the day.

Taron bloody notices, and he naturally continues on his merry way. Ever so slightly moving his hand up and down on the bottle, lips lingering on the top after every swig, taking overly enthusiastic gulps that make his Adam's apple bob in a way that should really be forbidden, and, to top it all off, letting out an exaggerated sigh after he's done with his drink.

The Coke bottle is rested back on the coffee table between them, and Taron's back falls back onto the firm cushions of the luxurious white couch he's sitting on. For the umpteenth time that day, he looks like he's _very_ pleased with himself.

Richard groans out loud, smirks mischievously, shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, silver streak glistening in the sunlight.

“You're impossible, Taron, you know that? We literally _just_ did it."

At that, Taron tsks. Not skipping a beat, he retorts, "If you actually believe I'm letting you get away with less than four to five times a day on our bloody _sex_ _holiday_ , well, Richard Madden, you're sadly mistaken. And you're a blasted _fool_."

Richard's mouth falls agape, and he barely registers when Taron gets up to shut the gazebo curtains completely, making sure the knots on the ties are neat and tight, and that the damn "Do Not Disturb" sign is properly sticking out.

—

Two hours, two blowjobs, and a few dips in the crystal blue sea later, Taron is adamant about wanting to play beach tennis—won't let Richard lay down in peace to enjoy the sea breeze and finish the gruesome crime novel that has been haunting his dreams for the past couple of days, in fact.

Reluctantly, but not really, Richard gets up from his sunbed and slips his Aviators back on.

"Let's have it, then", he challenges, taking a racket and the ball from Taron's outstretched right hand.

A few seaside getaways ago, they discovered they're both bloody amazing at this. They'd surprisingly never connected on it before— _it_ being years and years of tennis lessons as little boys, tennis camps in the summer, massive FOMO every year when Wimbledon rolls round and they're not in the Royal Box with Tom Hiddleston and Bradley Cooper gushing over Andy Murray (Richard) and Federer (Taron).

They both give their best performance to all the bystanders and passer-by’s on the Sardinian shore and Richard is _almost_ never distracted by Taron's peachy bum flashing silver at him every few seconds, or by his obscenely loud sunglasses, for that matter—they're massive navy blue Guccis, covered in Swarovski crystals, which Richard still can't believe Elton actually just _gave_ him. Richard is pretty sure they're the exact same ones he wore throughout the _Farewell Yellow Brick Road_ tour, too, and at that he briefly ponders whether Elton might be just as obsessed with Taron as he himself has been for the past couple of years. The answer is probably _yes, of course he is_ , why wouldn't he be, really.

Taron laughs wholeheartedly when Richard does a faux pas and his bum violently hits the wet sand, his glasses falling slightly askew over his nose and his cheeks flushing red from embarrassment.

" _Arsehole_ ", Richard spits, joining in Taron's mirth, though, because he knows he might indeed look pretty funny, all sprawled out on the shore after his very undignified slump.

Taron helps him up and entangles him in a tight embrace, coupled by a deep, messy kiss. Richard can _feel_ people watching them, the fair-skinned Scottish hunk and the blonde angel with the god-given booty in the clingy metallic pants, and he knows they're putting on quite the show and that there might be paparazzi lurking somewhere near, but doesn't find the strength to give a damn. Taron feels so good, so warm, so _perfect_ in his arms. He exhales happiness into Richard's mouth at every breath he takes, and Richard doesn't know if he's ever been as completely and utterly content in his life as he is right now.

When they part, Taron's hands remain tangled behind Richard's neck, and Richard's settle on Taron's hips, holding him, slightly possessively, as close as he can manage without making them look too explicit.  
Taron pulls his sunnies out of his face and rests them on the top of his head.

"I really can't wait to marry you, ya know", he declares, and Richard doesn't know how Taron's even a real human being, let alone how in the world he has accepted to become his forever.

**Author's Note:**

> I blame all of this entirely on Alex Turner and his naughty, naughty lyrics.  
> Except the hot pants. That is all on Taron. Damn that boy and his thighs.


End file.
